The Ghost of Iron Eyes (An Iron Eyes Western Book 8)

by Rory Black

Iron Eyes rubbed the gore from his face. His bony hands plucked his guns off the sand and held them to his chest.

  He closed his eyes and listened to his own pounding heart.

  Iron Eyes was still alive.

  Chapter Six

  The brilliant moon illuminated a thousand white-faced steers as the startled cattle stared up from the sweet grass of the open range and watched the five riders gallop along the sandy ridge high above them with their four pack animals in tow. Dust drifted off the hoofs of the horses as the lawmen headed at top speed for the first in the long line of remote settlements. The isolated trail was the only route to the town of Porter’s Bluff from Waco far to the south.

  With every stride of the lathered-up mounts, the acrid smell of foreboding grew more intense. Each of the five Texans knew that their worst fears were true. Brutal death had come to the town ahead of them.

  Marshal Lane Clark drew his reins to his chest and watched his dust drift toward the strangely quiet array of buildings ahead of them.

  Clark lowered his head.

  ‘Damn!’ he snarled under his breath. ‘I was hoping I was wrong.’

  As the quartet of deputies stopped their mounts alongside the brooding marshal, they saw the reality that faced their skittish horses.

  Even the moonlight could not hide the bodies from their dust-caked eyes for long. They were everywhere. Lifeless remnants of men, women and even children lay rotting all around the deserted streets.

  The sickening aroma hung on the night air. It was the smell of decaying flesh.

  ‘Oh, dear God!’ Col Drake gasped as the true horror of their discovery overwhelmed him. ‘Look at them, Lane. They’ve been slaughtered by Jardine and the vermin that ride with him!’

  Lane Clark reached across and touched Drake’s sleeve. He nodded slowly.

  ‘Easy, Col. We have to stay calm.’

  Drake lowered his head and tried vainly not to inhale the stench that turned his stomach.

  ‘I’ll try, but it ain’t gonna be easy. I ain’t never smelled nothing as bad as this.’

  ‘You’re lucky. I have.’ The marshal flicked his reins and pressed his nervous mount to walk forward. ‘I hope your canteens are full. I got me a gut feeling that we ain’t gonna find no fresh water here.’

  ‘Why not, Lane?’ asked Bobby Smith innocently as he steered his horse wide of the marshal’s stallion.

  “Coz men like Jardine take pleasure in dropping bodies down wells so that they poison the water for anyone who’s brave enough to try and follow them,’ the marshal answered, leading the horsemen through the dark streets.

  One by one the deputy marshals followed Clark deeper into the silent town. From atop their horses they continued to survey the scene of human destruction that surrounded them on all sides. None except Clark had ever seen anything like this before.

  Pete Hall took a half-smoked cigar from his vest pocket and quickly lit it. He inhaled the blue smoke and forced it down his flared nostrils. It was a vain attempt to prevent the aroma of death from filling his every sinew but the further their horses ventured in Porter’s Bluff, the stronger the smell became.

  Bobby Smith urged his mount on until it was nearly level with Lane Clark’s.

  ‘I’m scared, Marshal Clark!’ he admitted.

  Clark glanced at the youngest member of his small troop of riders.

  ‘I’m scared too, son! Damn scared!’

  Then a deafening noise filled their ears.

  It was the sound of a scattergun letting both barrels spew out their venom. The blinding flash of unexpected light caught each of the riders by surprise. Terrified horses reared up as the full power of the lethal buckshot hit the youngest deputy squarely.

  As Bobby Smith was torn to shreds by the lead shot that hit him off his saddle, Lane Clark managed to somehow steady his own mount. Before the deputy’s body had hit the ground, Clark had hauled his Colt from its holster and returned fire three times in the direction of the telltale gunsmoke.

  There was a muffled groan as their attacker stumbled forward from the shadows and crashed to the ground.

  The marshal swiftly threw himself from his saddle and landed next to what was left of his youngest deputy. He did not bother to check the body. He had seen too many dead men in his time not to recognize someone who was already on his way to his Maker.

  Blood had splattered the tightly grouped lawmen. They all dropped to the ground with their weapons drawn. But there was no one left to shoot at. Lane Clark had killed the only person left in the once flourishing settlement.

  Clark walked slowly through the eerie light until he was above the dead woman who was still clutching the smoking twin-barreled shotgun in her frail hands.

  ‘A woman?’ Clark muttered as if questioning his own eyes. ‘In all my days, I ain’t ever killed no female before.’

  Drake, Hail and Ripley ran to his side and stared down at the pitiful creature lying in the rays of the moon.

  ‘I should have looked before I fired.’ The marshal frowned at his handiwork.

  Tom Ripley turned away and stared around the rest of the bodies scattered all about them.

  ‘Don’t punish yourself, Lane. You wouldn’t have fired that hogleg if she hadn’t have killed young Bobby.’

  ‘But what in tarnation would a woman want to kill Bobby for, Lane?’ Col Drake asked.

  ‘It could have been any of us, Col,’ Hail muttered. ‘Bobby was just in the line of fire.’

  ‘She must have been half loco.’ Lane Clark sighed. He slid his gun back into its hand-tooled holster. ‘She seen everyone she ever knew slaughtered and somehow survived the carnage. Then we come riding in after sundown and her confused mind must have thought we were the same gang of outlaws come back for more killing. She just opened up. Bobby just drew the short straw, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t like this, Lane,’ Ripley admitted. ‘I don’t see no good coming out of us poking our noses in this cesspit. This ain’t the kinda job we’ve been trained to do. Not hunting down a whole pack of bloodthirsty varmints who can do this sorta thing.’

  The marshal glanced at Ripley.

  ‘I just killed an old woman, Tom. A loco old woman who probably never done no harm to anyone in her entire life. That ain’t right. That’s chewing at my craw. But it’s Henry Jardine and his men who killed the rest of the folks in this town. I reckon that if we ride into every other town between here and Diamond City, we’ll find a whole lot more senseless killings. You want to turn away from this and run back to Waco? Or do you wanna ride with me and try and stop this?’

  Ripley looked back at the body of Bobby Smith lying in the moonlight beside their skittish horses.

  ‘I ain’t scared to admit it, I don’t cotton to facing Jardine and his vermin, Lane.’

  Clark nodded.

  ‘Me neither, Tom. But how many times over the years have we done just that? We’re Texans, son. When something’s wrong, we have to do our best to make it right.’

  Ripley knew that he would never abandon the marshal with whom he had ridden for more than a decade. The deputy shrugged and gritted his teeth.

  ‘Damn you, Lane. You always know how to wave that flag under my nose and make me throw caution to the wind. I’ll ride with you wherever the trail leads. But it don’t feel right.’

  ‘It never does, boy.’ Clark rubbed the grime from his face and then realized that some of Bobby Smith’s gore was mixed in with the trail dust.

  Col Drake exhaled loudly.

  ‘Them outlaws must be kill-crazy, Lane. We ain’t no match for them kinda bastards.’

  ‘We can’t take them critters on, Marshal. We just ain’t good enough.’ Hall shuddered as the prospect of confronting the infamous dregs of so many vicious gangs dawned on him. ‘They’ll do the same to us that they done to all these poor folks.’

  Lane Clark nodded in agreement.

  ‘You’re all right. But I don’t intend for us to head straight for Diamond City just yet, boys. I ain’t
fixin’ to try and round up that bunch of misfits. Not without help, anyways.’

  ‘Then what?’ Drake asked.

  ‘We’re heading north from here to Devil’s Canyon. Straight up through them crags,’ Clark replied. He strode back towards their mounts and packhorses. ‘I intend finding Iron Eyes before I do anything else. I’ve seen that varmint take on entire towns on his lonesome and be the only man standing when the gunsmoke cleared.’

  ‘What if Iron Eyes is actually dead, Lane?’ Drake whispered into Clark’s ear. ‘We need somebody alive, not no damn ghost.’

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when we comes to it, Col,’ came the firm reply. The marshal stepped into his stirrup and hoisted himself atop his stallion. ‘Besides, I just killed me an innocent female and the blame for that lies at Henry Jar-dine’s feet! He’s gonna pay. They’re all gonna pay!’

  Tom Ripley touched Clark’s left leg.

  ‘Ain’t we buryin’ Bobby, Lane?’ he asked. ‘It don’t seem right to leave him here for the buzzards.’

  The marshal shook his head sorrowfully.

  ‘There ain’t enough left of the young ‘un to bury, Tom. Look at him, son. C’mon, we gotta ride and get the smell of this damn town out of our noses.’

  The deputies mounted and led their pack animals out of Porter’s Bluff. They spurred hard and headed north into the crags.

  Each of the riders silently wondered if the man they sought was in Devil’s Canyon and if so, was he still alive?

  Or were they on a fool’s errand, seeking nothing more than the ghost of Iron Eyes?

  Chapter Seven

  The sun had grown hotter and hotter with every passing moment since it had first emerged above the distant mesas to announce the start of yet another torturous day. As both the hands of Theo Newton’s golden half-hunter pocket-watch reached the twelve on its dial, the merciless hot orb was directly overhead. All the men and horses were soaked in their own sweat as they continued to travel deeper into the parched unnamed land they all knew to be an Apache stronghold. It was said that the only people who could survive in this deadly terrain were the Apache.

  For they could find food and water where no other Indian tribes could. All attempts to break their spirit had failed.

  Few chose to travel this dangerous course, but this was the shortest route between Apache Wells and Waco. When time was at a premium, even sane men took risks and were willing to make the ultimate gamble.

  So it was with Colonel Caufield Cotter and his men.

  There was an urgency in the troop of fifty Texas Rangers who blazed a trail across the desolate prairie that was above and beyond the call of duty. These were men who defied the dangers that most would have shied away from. To a man, they had volunteered to follow the famed Colonel Caufield Cotter who, as always, rode at the head of the Apache Wells troop of Texas Rangers.

  Most of the horsemen knew that they were riding with a living legend. A man who always led by example and had never once sent his Rangers into a place where he was not willing to go himself.

  Some of their number, however, wondered if so many years sitting behind a desk might have taken the edge off Cotter’s once shrewd judgment. But none had even questioned the reasons behind his asking them to risk their lives and follow him to the distant Waco.

  The long line of riders led a supply wagon filled with provisions and boxes of extra ammunition. Cotter had ensured they as well prepared as any of his earlier campaigns. They had left their Apache Wells outpost far behind them, and for the first time in its history, it was deserted.

  Colonel Cotter drove his white charger at breakneck pace across the arid landscape, like a man possessed by demons. It was as if he had forgotten those who rode behind him and were trying to keep up. It troubled his second in command.

  Lieutenant Theo Newton wondered if Cotter might just be trying too hard to prove himself to the far younger Texas Rangers behind them. Or was this how the old campaigner had always done it? Newton had never before ridden into possible action with Cotter. By the time he had joined the ranks of the famous Texas Rangers, the colonel’s days of glory had already passed into history.

  Using every ounce of his strength, Newton managed to force his own mount to catch up with the magnificent white horse and its straight-backed master.

  ‘Colonel! The men need a break, sir,’ Newton called out at the stone-featured Cotter who appeared like a statue perched on his saddle. ‘They need to water their horses and eat.’

  Cotter’s turned his head. His hooded eyes glanced at the horseman beside him.

  ‘We’ve still a long way to go, Theo.’

  ‘I know.’ Newton nodded. His gloved hands clutched on to his reins as the mane of his horse flapped like the wings of an eagle into his chest. ‘But the men’s horses are spent. I think we ought to stop.’

  Cotter rose up until he was balanced in his stirrups. He looked over his shoulder through the dust cloud kicked up by their mounts’ hoofs. The troopers and the wagon were valiantly attempting to keep pace with their leader, but failing miserably. He eased back on his reins and felt the powerful animal beneath him slow its pace.

  ‘Once again you are correct, Theo,’ Cotter admitted as their horses came to a halt. ‘I had forgotten the excitement that riding my charger can bring me. I apologize for my total lack of consideration. Tell the men we shall have at least an hour’s rest. They can feed and water the animals and then get Cookie to rustle up some hot food. Men need their bellies full.’

  Newton turned his own mount full circle and watched as the rest of the troop drew up behind the white charger. Before he could speak again something caught his eye from the line of distant mesas to the east. It was a sight that chilled him to the bone. A sight that he had encountered twice before in his short but eventful life.

  ‘Look, Colonel.’ He pointed. ‘Is that smoke?’

  Without the slightest hint of emotion, Cotter reached for his binoculars and raised them to his eyes. He adjusted the focus until he could clearly see the thin line of smoke rising into the blue cloudless sky. He scanned the rest of the mesas with the powerful lenses until he spotted another trail of smoke making its way heavenward. Cotter knew that he and his forty-nine followers had been spotted by the Apache. Soon the smoke signals would inform every Indian within a hundred miles of them. The colonel returned the binoculars back to his saddlebags without comment.

  ‘Sir?’ Newton urged his superior officer to confirm his assumption. ‘Is it smoke signals?’

  The colonel nodded.

  ‘Yes, we’ve been spotted, but there is no need to worry the men just yet. Those Apaches are still a long way off. You have your orders, Lieutenant. The men and horses require refreshment. Ensure they get it.’

  Newton saluted in affirmation.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Chapter Eight

  The sound of the Winchester being repeatedly cocked and fired rang out around Diamond City until its smoking magazine was empty. As the acrid gunsmoke cleared, the dozen or more bodies were revealed to the eyes of the terrified females who had been gathered together by the outlaws. No sooner had the deafening sound of the rifles being fired stopped ringing in the ears of the impassive gang members than the screaming started. It was the most chilling of noises.

  Yet it was a sound that Jardine and his confederates had heard many times over the previous months. The outlaws knew that they would not permit any rebels within the boundaries of this town. They had learned by their mistakes on their way to Diamond City.

  They knew that this time they would have to allow some of the townspeople to live if they were to remain here. They required slaves to keep the town up and running. This would not be like Black Rock, Porter’s Bluff and the other settlements they had entered and plundered. This time they would not slaughter every living creature within the town’s boundaries.

  This time they would be merciful. At least merciful by the sordid standards they had set themselves. For to them, to use people as mere o
bjects had become second nature. They had grown accustomed to raping females and then killing them. This time they would have to try and control their brutal emotions.

  One of the screaming females ran towards the smoking rifle and started clubbing at the chest of the outlaw. Toke Darrow threw the empty Winchester to his brother Jade, then looked down into the face of the woman. He laughed. It was the cruel laughter of a man who had lost all sense of right and wrong since straying willingly into a life of crime with his brothers.

  ‘She’s a feisty one and no mistake, boys,’ Darrow laughed as his strong fingers encircled the female’s wrists. He squeezed with all his might and lifted her off her feet. He seemed to take even more pleasure in the pain he could see in her tear-stained face. ‘Reckon she’s ripe?’

  The rest of the outlaws gathered closer to their amused colleague.

  ‘Blood can make a woman darn frisky, Toke,’ said Rufus Clayton. ‘They all want to be used. You ought to drag her up to your room and let her taste a real man, Toke.’

  ‘Damn right, Red.’ Darrow smiled. He released his grip and dropped the woman. She fell on to her knees and stared through her long hair at the vermin in human form who surrounded her.

  Suddenly, the woman threw herself at Darrow’s gunbelt. She hauled one of his prized Colts from its holster, then fell on to her broad bottom.

  ‘Now I’m gonna kill you, mister!’ Her raised voice snapped at the stunned outlaw who gazed down at her in amazement.

  ‘I doubt that, missy!’ Toke Darrow growled. His left hand moved to his gun and slid it from its holster.

  The heavy weapon shook in her hands as she tried to pull back its hammer. Then her eyes widened as she watched Darrow’s left thumb easily pull back the hammer of his gun until it locked. Desperately she tried to emulate his action. Yet not both her thumbs could achieve the feat. She simply did not have the strength to do so.

  ‘Kill me, you swine!’ she screamed defiantly.

  Toke Darrow looked around the faces of the other outlaws and then at the remaining women. A wry smile etched his unshaven features.